


orange trees

by violescent



Category: The Sims (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Headcanon, Magic, Mentor/Protégé, Multi, Not friends to friends to lovers, POV Second Person, Rating May Change, Romance, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violescent/pseuds/violescent
Summary: this is how it feels to be free.-A story about two suns sharing the same orbit; harmony.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Morgyn Ember/Reader, Reader & Everyone
Comments: 55
Kudos: 71





	1. i can see the flowers and the greenery

**Author's Note:**

> work title and chapter titles are based off of the song "Orange Trees" by MARINA.
> 
> hey, so: this is my first attempt at a second person POV story, thinly (but not really) veiled by my big crush on Morgyn. speaking of which, I will be referring to everyone's favorite Sage with he/they pronouns throughout the duration of the fic. additionally, though this is "canon compliant," sims are sims and they can be manipulated to fit any story line. i simply hope you enjoy the way they fit in mine. 
> 
> also, i usually try to limit author's notes, but i don't think they can be avoided with this one. that being said, i appreciate your engagement with this fic, and i thank you all for subjecting yourselves to what is the most self-indulgent thing i've written in my life. 
> 
> much love!

You weren't sure about it, any of it. Things were supposed to be like this: family, friends, school, a job. A small apartment in the spice district of San Myshuno, overlooking the streets full of people and waves of neon light that hurt to look at. You'd attend the local university, wearing Britechester green or Foxbury red, depending on which school of thought offered more money. (But, it's college. You're not making money no matter how hard you try.)

Instead, you stepped foot into Glimmerbrook, and haven't been the same since. How were you supposed to know that this town was ancient, steeped in history? That the roads were brown and gray, surrounded on all sides by bushes and flowers—the kinds pretty enough to make you forget that you were two sneezes away from having allergies? Or that the brook wasn't only a namesake, and the stream of water running through the town was clear and strong, resonating as a second heartbeat when you closed your eyes at night?

At least the neighbors are nice, and not vicious-people-pretending-to-be-nice-so-they-can-ruin-you-later nice, but actually nice. The Charm family is a bit arrogant, though: Minerva stares at you with eyes deeper than canyons and twice as dark, and her son, Darrel, is incredibly charming when he isn't being an insufferable bastard half the time. You don't know how he got someone as sweet as Emilia to fall in love with him ("It's real love, and it goes both ways," she had reassured you with sparkling hazel eyes. "I promise!"), but it happened and they are very much in love. Gemma is so embarrassed by everyone that she is the first to leave your house once the welcome wagon screeches to a halt on your front doorstep.

Grace and Tomax are much more your speed. They are younger, Grace having graduated from high school two summers ago, and Tomax, three. You go out for drinks and share the same sense of humor. Tomax is a great listener, and Grace's laughter could fill up a room.

It's because of them that you're standing in the Magic Realm right now, toes curled into iron balls at the bottoms of your feet, weighing you down through the laces of your shoes. Standing before you is a building dubbed "Headquarters," a rectangular white building with more windows than you can count. The pillars are like icicles facing the sun, reaching high above the heavens to pierce the clouds.

Or what _would_ be clouds. You can see vague swirls of color and shapes overhead, but nothing full or white. Glimmerbrook gets stormy this time of year, and yet not a single gust of wind blows through the mystical realm. You almost consider shrugging off your jacket, but you know better than to disrobe in unfamiliar territory.

You count the stairs as you ascend them, passing by other people with pride. You recognize some of them from the local dive bar, but they do not know you, and it's evident in their wide-eyed looks and excited murmurs.

Inside, Headquarters is aglow with something _more._ You won't call it magical just yet, but the air settles in your stomach like a layer of dust, and you will it to calm before moving forward. There are countless shelves of books, luxurious chaises, and open-mouthed cauldrons sitting out in every room. There are gaggles of people ( _spellcasters,_ you remember the term) clustered together, and an explosive exchange of fire and water happens in the center room, in a lowered pit where a crowd gathers to watch whose magical might will conquer the other's.

Your eyes are glued to the sight: a swish of canary-yellow cloth is all it takes for you to register the combatant as Grace, and her bright smile is narrowed down into something _wicked_ as she raises her arm, and channels all the energy into her palm. She stomps her heel into the floor, and holds steady as a stream of blue sparks reflects off of her magical shield. The other combatant is Tomax, because he curses a string of not-so-family-friendly words the second Grace usurps him, sending him spiraling through the air with a wave of her hand.

The crowd erupts in cheers and hollers, and both spellcasters are propped to their feet, glowing in the praise around them.

Exactly ten minutes after the fight subsides, you run into _them_.

Morgyn Ember, Sage of the Untamed. Grace and Tomax are friends with them, since it was because of Morgyn that they even became spellcasters, in the first place. You've even seen a few group selfies that Grace took, so you're familiar with their appearance. But after seeing them in the flesh, you decide that pictures do them no justice.

Bright blond hair, somewhere in between wavy and curled, parted to their right. Vibrant green eyes, like the grass, the trees, the hedges that line the garden in your backyard. And prime among his features are the subtle spattering of freckles across his nose and under his eyes, tiny kisses leftover by the sun.

And their voice is a song, in every way a voice can _be_ a song. The highest notes reach your ears from behind, almost teasing but too serious to give into the effect: "Are you in the business of staring?"

You turn on your heels to confirm that once more, Morgyn Ember is far more attractive in real life, and even pictures aren't up to snuff. You can see the curiosity in their eyes, cosmic stars blinking into existence. "Not really," you respond, with an equally lilting tone. "I couldn't help it: I've never seen anything like that before."

"Is it anything like you expected it to be?"

"No," you answer, more truthfully than you'd like. "But I like it."

Their lips quirk up into a smile, soft and subtle and sweet. You wonder if you've had one too many drinks before coming here if you're already noticing terrible details like that. "Well, there's no rule against tourists, so feel free to stare all you'd like. Just try not to run into things, okay?"

Morgyn returns his attention to his spell book—a red leather-bound volume that floats in midair, glowing softly as the pages turn on their own. He only gets through three pages before you say, "I want to be a spellcaster, too."

You don't expect him to refuse, but he doesn't accept you right away, either. He continues to read his book as he asks, "Why?"

Uh-oh, that's a venture requiring thought if there ever was one. Your palms start to sweat. "Why what?"

" _Why_ do you want to be a spellcaster? It's not a game."

"I know."

"It's not a trend, either." He doesn't say it, but you suspect he means Grace and Tomax—if they've talked to you about Morgyn, it might make sense that they've talked to Morgyn about _you_ , too. "Not the kind of thing for bandwagons, if you know what I mean."

You know exactly what he means. You've been through the worst of it, with certain clothing choices, behavioral displays, and albums of music dedicated to all the "bandwagons" you've ever jumped on. But much like Glimmerbrook, life is full of twists and turns, and it flows in more than one direction. You rode the winds of change yourself not too long ago. "I know, I know. I can be indecisive, but this time, I'm sure it's what I want."

"So you want to take up spell casting on a _whim_ , is that it?"

You chew on your lip. "No, not really. It feels _right,_ like anything else would just be wrong. And I'm ready to commit to it fully, or whatever."

"Whatever." His voice is humorless and dry, but his eyes flicker up to meet yours, and they are anything but. "Okay, whatever. You want to be a spellcaster, I'll allow it. But you can't go back on your word once it's done." His tome shuts itself up, and the book continues to float until he grabs it mid-air. "Deal?"

"Deal."

And before you can say anything else, Morgyn's eyes are upon you, and he steps forward to close the distance, until the ends of his blood-red jacket hang dangerously close to your legs, and his hands, dressed in rings and fetters of ruby and gold, are brushes away from making contact with yours.

You float in the air, surrounded by a cascade of eye-straining colors. By the time your feet touch the ground, the colors are gone, but the world is intensified, instead, and every detail jumps out at you.

There are more freckles on Morgyn's face than you initially anticipated. It is considerably harder to tear your eyes away from them.

"You'll see these orbs of magical light called 'motes' spread out across the realm. Bring me back seven of them, and the ritual will be complete." They give you a once-over, before returning to their book with the same interested-disinterest as before. They don't even look up at you as they add, "You've got a time limit, so I'd hurry if I were you."

You nod silently, and hurry out the door to complete the task.

You wouldn't know this, but Morgyn's studious expression melts into a smile—wide and bright and hidden behind the words of his predecessors—as he tries to pretend you are only a fleeting thought, and not the center of your own handmade universe.

The game is on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm too lazy to open the game right now so i'm getting all the names of places and people from the wiki. apologies for any discrepancies. (also, i'm the first one to tag Gemma in anything? but i can't blame y'all because i've really hit the bottom, writing fic for the _sims,_ of all things.) 
> 
> next time: mote hunting, a shopping spree, and trial-by-error.


	2. i take a breath of air, i feel free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mote hunting, a shopping spree, and trial-by-error.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: this chapter contains minor injuries received from falling.

The motes are everywhere, and it's a bit disappointing because you'd expect them to be hidden. Instead of checking for secret hiding places or traveling through the underbrush, you are swiping them from the walkways, and snatching them up before they drift too far off the edge. There are countless motes, and against your better wishes, you spend a considerable amount of time exploring the Magic Realm, rather than carrying out Morgyn's task.

Casters Alley is your favorite place by far. It is a small gathering of dilapidated buildings, but there are several shops filled with wares and goods, and a steady stream of customers appearing through the portal, or flying in ahead on their brooms. You even see a couple of them materialize from thin air, a puff of violet smoke dissipating in their wake.

You are first in line to buy a wand. In your childhood, you've read stories about kids who find magical worlds hidden in the normal one, and they always have a wand, or a scepter, or a staff to channel their power. There is a wide array of magical instruments before you, and the vendor ( _is that a ghost?_ you can't help but wonder) promises that everything is bonafide, real, legitimate merchandise and they deserve to be bought at full price.

You purchase the classic "magician's wand" for irony's sake and irony's sake alone. Though you can't deny the satisfaction you get from spinning it around in your hands, pretending to summon a proverbial rabbit out of a proverbial hat.

By the time you buy your first broom (it looks like the regular old mop you have at home, but this one can make you fly, so there), you realize you haven't yet even completed the quest. You've lost track of time and though the world still seems intense and bright, you admit it's not as magical as it was when Morgyn first cast the spell on you.

You return to Headquarters, and you must be late, or close to it, because Morgyn is actually _looking at you_ this time. "Wow, talk about getting it in at the buzzer. Did you take a nap or something?"

They ask that as if they can't see your new purchases trailing behind you, or resting in your hands. You set your stuff to the side and sigh. "Sorry, I guess I got caught up in all of it. But I'm still serious about the whole thing, and look! I've got seven motes, just like you wanted."

"Perfect. Give them to me."

You don't know how you managed to collect _light,_ but things are magical now, so you don't bother thinking too hard. The motes are handed over without complaint, and Morgyn points their wand at you.

You remember bright lights, spinning, and a sensation that feels like getting burned by fire _and_ ice, skin chaffing by the layer. You are on your feet before you know it, completely unharmed, to boot—only this time, there is electricity in place of blood.

This time, there is _magic_ in your veins, and Morgyn's attention seems dialed in on you. Your own personal magical wavelength. "And now, you are officially a spellcaster."

"Officially? So I've—" you hope your words are appreciated as you think of his witticisms and nothing else— "shed my mortal coil? Cast down my old self?"

Rather than amused, he looks mildly surprised, but even that is lessened into something pleasant, and genuine. A true smile. "Yes, that's right. What you decide to do from this point onward is up to you, but if you ever need guidance—"

"You'd be happy to help?"

"You'd be better off on your own."

"Wait, seriously?"

They laugh at you, and you'd feel spurned if it was anyone else but Morgyn, who at this point, you accept to be the object of your spontaneous affections. "Maybe, maybe not. It depends on what you need help with, but I can only handle so many stupid questions at once."

"Stupid?"

"Yeah."

Oh, it is _so_ on. "I'll show you. I'll get stronger and make you eat your words."

"I prefer food."

"Just shut it, Ember."

They laugh again, and their attention becomes scattered between the five different spell books they have floating around them, as well as the handful of magical hopefuls who have appeared, and are seeking Ember's expert expertise.

Their expressions are so genuine around other people, your heart aches for the same familiarity and ease. Though you can't say that you hate this arrangement, this back-and-forth of words that are more like moves in a game, one you are determined to win.

You head back out into the magical world, holding all the clutter close to your chest, unaware of a pair of green eyes that flicker to your disappearing figure—an uncertain candle burning its hesitant flame.

* * *

Grace and Tomax are excited to train alongside you. They're way better than you since they've been doing this longer, but rest assured you'll catch up to them in time.

Darrel thinks you're too weak to consider a threat, but promises to go easy on you whenever you decide to have your first real duel.

Emilia is thankful she isn't the only beginner anymore, and plans to study with you when she has time.

Minerva approves of your choice to take on magic, but her haughty air hasn't changed whatsoever. Gemma, at least, is willing to acknowledge that you exist, and quietly reveals to you that she hopes you kick her brother's ass someday.

If becoming a spellcaster is a mistake, it's the best one you've ever made.

* * *

Her name is L. Faba, and you're not quite sure if you like her yet. She is Sage of the Mischief, and so technically, you _have_ to like her, but it's hard when she stole your wallet upon greeting you, or made you incredibly sad the moment you revealed to her that you were having a great day prior to.

And her laughter is a pealing bell above your head, reminding you of the chaos that is to come. On the bright side, she is a fantastic cook, and whenever you feel strong enough to brave the hexes she's put in her food, you find yourself tasting the most delicious meals you've had in your entire life. During those moments, she seems truly pleased, and flips her bright purple hair behind her shoulder with utmost glee.

Simeon is less outward with his feelings, if he even has any. Of course, you're not one to be overly judgemental, especially on first meetings, but he is so reserved and _plain_ that you're not sure a man of his caliber is fit to be a Sage. At least L. Faba is entertaining, and Morgyn is... _Morgyn._

Yet when you stumble in front of Morgyn, Simeon always happens to be there, an unfortunate bystander to your (not-so) subtle way of flirting, or your attempts at eliciting true laughter from Morgyn. He never voices any complaints, but looks at you in a way that reminds you Morgyn is far out of your league.

Oh, Morgyn. They were happy when you first became a spellcaster, and when you shared those first clever remarks with one another. Since then, they have reserved their best reactions for the truly admirable feats, like besting another spellcaster in a duel, or mastering the art of flying on a broom.

Both of which you fail miserably. The first official duel you have is with Emilia, your only other spellcaster friend who has the honor of being a complete newbie, and therefore the easiest to defeat in battle.

In reality, she wipes the floor with you, and you skid to a halt mere inches before colliding with a marble bench. At least in the dueling grounds, there are multiple matches ongoing, so only Grace and a couple of stragglers are witness to your devastating loss.

Oh, and Morgyn, of course, but why _wouldn't_ that be the case?

Thankfully, they decide to show mercy, and instead of teasing you on your horrible form, give you advice on the places where you could do better. You come away from the battle with a few bruises, but also with ideas on how you can turn the tables for next time.

Then comes the flying lessons, and it seemed so easy at first. Sit, steer, and soar! That's what the guide says, and that's what everyone says after they've had their first successful run. If you know how to drive a car or ride a bicycle, in comparison, then flying a broomstick should be no different.

Yeah? Tell that to your _face_ when it crashes against the hard ground as your broomstick (the magic mop has been upgraded to a standard brown broom, but at least it's _actually_ a broom, this time) shoots out from underneath you. Luckily, you were less than six feet in the air when you fell.

Unluckily, Morgyn was there, _again,_ to witness you fail horribly at what you promised to master.

And worse is that this time, they don't hold back on the teasing. "There's no shame in using the portals, y'know." There very well might not be, but their devilish smirk says otherwise. It says _Wow that was pathetic, why'd you want to do this again? You sure you don't want to become a mermaid instead because you are_ very _good at sinking._

Though, it's not Morgyn's voice saying those cruel things inside your head, because why would it be?

It's _your_ voice and you have to come to terms with the fact that you can't succeed on something the first time you try it. Licking your wounds (not literally, ew), you gather your things and start back at square one.

Your frustration doesn't go unnoticed, and Morgyn lingers in the courtyard for just a moment longer to watch. When you are safely in the air for longer than thirty seconds, they leave the scene, and aren't there to see you fall a second, third, and fourth time.

They think a lot of things, and wonder if there's any use in patching up wounds that they know to be crucial to your growth as a spellcaster.

But detriment to his heart, all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seeds of love have been sown, and only time will tell if a plant will grow from it.   
> time and myself, obviously. 
> 
> next time: getting your feet (or your mouth) wet with alchemy.


	3. spent so long, was busy chasing happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> getting your feet (or your mouth) wet with alchemy.

Alchemy is one of your favorite endeavors as a spellcaster. You wouldn't think it at first, since it seems a lot like cooking, and we all know how the last time you tried to cook something went.

...Okay, it probably wasn't all _that_ bad. Maybe it was even _good,_ but your poor taste testers never told you the truth, so how could you tell? Either way, potions seems a lot like soup making, and you didn't consign your mortal soul to _magic_ just so you could learn how to make _advanced soup._

But when you actually experiment with potions for the first time, you find that it's nothing like that. Less like a process, and more like a game: find the ingredients, form the broth, stir and stir until your arms tire. And your familiar, a blue blur of a fairy, hovers by you all the while, whispering helpful things to make the process go along easier.

You finish, and the result is a bright orange concoction that sparkles and fumes, letting you know that it is a success. After double-checking your spell book, you realize that you have formed the _Potion of Magical Aura,_ and there is just enough liquid to fill four identical vials.

In the end, you bottle up three portions worth of it, and drink the fourth one straight from the cauldron.

Your fairy familiar remarks on your successful endeavor, but you comment that you can't tell the difference.

"It is not an obvious potion," it tells you while flying about your head. It speaks in a voice that is so quiet, yet just loud enough to be heard by you, and you alone. "Others see it better than you can."

As if to prove your point, the moment you turn on your heels, you come face-to-face with the Untamed Sage, themselves.

They have a stack of books floating after them in an obedient row—little chicks following the mother hen at her every behest. Yet the moment they lay eyes on you, the books falter, and tremble violently before falling to the floor.

They stare at you in wonderment, and now you're worried that the potion has backfired, somehow, and you sprout extra limbs or a scaly tail in place of what should be a magical aura.

"Morgyn," you begin to say. "Is it _that_ bad?"

"No," they answer quickly, remembering themselves and the world around them at once. Fate has it that you are standing in the second floor garden, right outside the glass reception room—Morgyn's favorite spot in the entire Headquarters. The grass curls at your ankles, and the scent of honeysuckles and hydrangeas drifts throughout the air, calming you.

You speak without worries, despite your chest heaving at the sight of your mentor. "So why are you looking so lost? Don't tell me you started a staring business without asking lil' ol' _me."_

They scoff at your petty memory, and rearrange the books into a more acceptable state before speaking. "...Your aura is impressive."

"My aura?"

"Don't tell me you can't see it."

You look down to make sure that, _yes_ , you can see it: a faint glow of light enveloping your entire being, whispering against your skin like an old friend. You examine your hands, and find your digits surrounded by colorful remnants of what must be your aura.

"I see it," you reassure them. "But it's no big deal."

"If you were hoping to stumble upon Immortality by accident, stop hoping right now. The only way you can learn that kind of potion is by reading the guide."

"Tomes are expensive," you bemoan. "And also, isn't _anything_ possible? So who's to say I won't find the secret to never-ending life on accident, while I'm searching for something else?"

"Save up," they insist. "Anything is possible, but that doesn't mean you should try it." They remind. " _I'm_ to say you won't find it on accident, because you'd need to be more experienced to make _those_ kinds of mistakes." They pause, then add the final stake in your coffin: "And whatever you're searching for had better be good, because you've been here for six hours and only managed to make _one_ thing."

You recoil at their words, true and harsh as they may be. Morgyn holds no sympathy for you as they maintain a serious look. Strangely enough, outside of this place (at Elixirs and Brews, for example, where alcohol can loosen his tongue faster than any spell can) he is much less stern. It's hard to believe that the prodigal Sage standing before you is the same guy that accepted Grace's dare, and drank two bottles of wine without keeling over. Or the guy who cursed Darrel like a sailor when he lost at cards. Or the guy that spoke to Minerva Charm so cordially, until he broke down her walls with a tasteless joke about L. Faba (who she _hates,_ mind you). Or the guy who rubbed circles into Emilia's back when she got nauseous from a spell gone wrong. Or the guy that helped a kid run a lemonade stand, switching out the water with Potions of Good Fortune when he thought no one was looking.

 _You_ were looking, of course. You're _always_ looking at Morgyn, because at this point in time, you have no reason not to.

Except for when he embarrasses you, of course. And right now, he is more than embarrassing you, as you entertain the thought of a spell that can wipe you off the plane of existence. Or maybe the black hole that threatens to destroy the realm would destroy _you,_ instead, so you wouldn't have to stand there like an idiot in front of the coolest cat around.

(Actually, he's a dork, and you're pretty sure of it, but you'd love him even if he _was_ cool. Or not. Who cares?)

"I'm searching for eternity," you dare to say. "Okay, that's way too dramatic, but you get what I mean. I _like_ alchemy, so I'll just keep going at it 'til I get something good."

"Alright," he concedes. "That's fine. Just try not to burn the place down while you're at it. Simeon is our resident janitor and he'll appreciate it more than he can say."

"Is he really the janitor?"

Morgyn smiles. "No, but he'll be glad to hear that you seriously considered it for even a _moment."_

"Oh, you are the _worst,"_ you groan. "Go be Sagely somewhere else, yeah? I have potions that need tending...to. Existing. Whatever!"

"Whatever," he agrees. "See you around."

He leaves and you return to your work, determined to find Immortality sooner, rather than later.

Morgyn heads downstairs and tries to forget the sight of your aura, as brilliant as fireworks and twice as colorful.

And yet, completely hidden from your oblivious eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm crapshooting the colors of the potions because i am, once again, too lazy to open the game to verify. not to mention that my current save is dedicated to a 100 baby challenge, so realm of magic isn't at the top of stagnant thoughts sitting in the back of my mind. but nevertheless, it's my favorite pack, and so i'll try to do it justice as we stumble along through this mess. 
> 
> next time: your friends are awful, except when they aren't.


	4. when all i needed was a little peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your friends are awful, except when they aren't.

The first person who officially knows about your crush on Morgyn is Grace. She is easy to get along with, even if her pleasures are simple and her temper is short. Still, she is sympathetic to your plight, and doesn't laugh at the fact that you are intrigued by your mentor and friend, Morgyn Ember.

She teases the _hell_ out of you for it, though. "Seriously, _Morgyn?_ What do you see in him?"

You're not even sure of that yourself. You shrug and say, "I have _eyes,_ Grace. I can appreciate someone's simple—" or in Morgyn's case, _hot_ — "appearance, can't I?"

"Yeah, but, like. He's Morgyn." She says it like you're supposed to know what that means. "Well, whatever, I wish you luck. Y'know, for as long as I've known him, I don't think I've ever seen him go out with someone."

To this, you sit up a little straighter, intrigued by the gossip disguised as advice. "Not once?"

"Nope."

"Is he the type of person that doesn't like dating?" Because if so, there goes all of your plans, but it's better to stop the quest now if that's the case.

She hums and places a hand under her chin, using the other hand to swirl around her martini. "Hard to say. But I don't think he's _totally_ disinterested in it—I asked him for relationship advice one time, and he referred to a past _lover,_ so."

You pale at the thought, but it comes as no surprise that Morgyn Ember has had loving affairs in the past. He is too perfectly imperfect to pass up, otherwise. "Okay, well, there's a first time for everything, yeah?"

"Yeah, but please don't tell me that's the only reason you became a spellcaster."

 _It's not!_ Curious, you ask instead, "And what if it is?"

Grace frowns, an expression that harms her pretty, painted lips and her dark brown eyes. "Then that would suck, because I liked hanging out with you."

"Grace, I'm joking. I wanted to be a spellcaster for lots of reasons, and Morgyn is more like an added bonus than anything else."

She smiles, and it's almost like the frown never existed in the first place. "For real?"

"For real."

"Great! In which case I'll happily play wing man for you. Maybe I can get Tomax to help, too."

"I'd rather not tell anyone else about this," you insist. "I don't need everyone knowing how bad I've got it for Morgyn, including Tomax."

"Too late for that," Tomax says from behind you. You had forgotten about the prior arrangements you three had for lunch at this hour. He takes a seat at the bar next to you, and you don't dare look him in the eye. "I won't tell anyone else, but I pity you. Morgyn is no cakewalk."

Head buried in your arms, Grace promises it's not as bad as it seems, and Tomax goes off on some tangent about how Morgyn is a heart-breaker despite acting like such a paragon when it comes to magic. You expertly ignore them both, then mutter: "Yeah, well, me neither."

* * *

It is the last week of spring, and nearly the one-month anniversary commemorating your initiation into the Magic Realm. Not that it is a moment worth celebrating, but you wonder where all the time has gone, and if the crosses on your calendar amount to anything, in the end.

You leave your house after tending to the garden (you've since learned a helpful Practical spell, _Floralorial,_ that makes maintaining your magical and non-magical plants so much easier), locking the gates behind you as you set out. Though you are better at flying on a broomstick than you once were, and though you have a magical stone that will transport you instantly between Glimmerbrook and the Magic Realm, you go through the trouble of walking to the portal yourself, enjoying the scenery along the way.

Right before you stray from the main path onto the side lane that runs parallel to the stream, you run into your favorite Sage.

And maybe because it's spring, but they're decked out in a long, pale-green, floral-patterned dress that reaches their ankles, and a white chiffon ribbon tied into a bow at their neck. Their usual black eyeliner is softer today, and their eyes gleam like emeralds as they give you a quick once-over.

You try not to burn under their stare, but much like their name, you smolder. "Hi Morgyn," you say lamely.

"Hey," they reply. "You look nice today."

What? _You_ look nice? What about them, the icon of fashion, chaos, and magic rolled into one? Next to Morgyn's spring ensemble, your navy-blue hoodie and jeans seems casual, nearly under-dressed. But they're not the type for false flattery, so as much as you deny it, you realize that you must look bearable in order for them to say such a thing.

You smile. "Thanks. Heading home?"

"Just for a little bit."

"Okay. Maybe I'll see you around HQ in a little bit." You've always liked the garden on the second story, or the gardens with the ancient greenhouse and sparkling ponds. Morgyn never strays from headquarters—too many spellcasters require his assistance for them to leave for too long—but they've gone once or twice to the duelling grounds with you, and accompanied you when you went shopping for more familiars (in addition to the fairy, you also now have a dragon, or a mini version of a dragon, anyway) in Casters Alley. So maybe, on this beautiful spring day, they'll indulge you in more mundane activities, the only kind you know how to have.

They match your smile in length, but outdo it in brightness. "Sure. Be seeing you."

And your conversation ends as soon as it begins, but your eyes wander to the Sage's fleeting figure, and the way their dress swishes and folds after them—a train of fabric following the rails. It's not until you reach the Magic Realm and begin practicing that you begin to wonder—realizing that after all this time, you still know nothing about Morgyn Ember outside of the magic they've given you, outside of the mentoring they half-offered you when the two of you first met.

The feeling in your stomach is either anxiety or excitement, though perhaps there was never a difference from the start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these are moments, small moments in time, and soon they will build up to something more. 
> 
> next time: age is just a number...right?


	5. try to get back to what we need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> age is just a number...right?

"You've got guts," L. Faba tells you over her book. She is less of a bookworm than Morgyn is, but occasionally you spot her reading through thick volumes. Today is one such occasion, and her amethyst eyes flicker from the page to your face as she studies you carefully. "Trying to get a Sage to fall for you like that."

You aren't clumsy enough to drop your phone into the cauldron, but her words are surprising enough that you shove your phone back into your pocket, anyway. Your Potion of Good Fortune ( _ha)_ sits incomplete, and it will stay there as your attention is now dialed in on the Mistress of Mischief herself. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. Do you think we're _blind?"_ L laughs and closes her book—one you suspect she wasn't even reading, to begin with. "Simeon and I notice these kinds of things, y'know. We're kinda obligated to."

Normally, you'd try to deny such allegations, but there's no use trying to outplay the Sages. Defeated, your shoulders hunch slightly as you mutter, "Was it _that_ obvious?"

"For us? Yes. For _me?"_ L. Faba stands to her feet, twirling in a circle as her pearl-white dress swings around her, before coming to a stop at her calves when she reaches out to you—face smug, hands held behind her back, hair falling into curtains framing her face. You feel like a child, and that she is another child who has found some twisted interest in you, ready to make you into one of her schoolyard lackeys.

Instead, she grins wider, and says, "I knew it from the moment you first stepped into the building."

"That was two months ago," you gasp. "Are you serious?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Though not all spellcasters practice other forms of magic or divination, I'm _quite_ the diviner, I'll have you know." The stars in her skin seem to twinkle as she says this. You realize for the first time that those are not tattoos or stickers, but marks of _magic_ imbued into her very body. "And besides, Morgyn is _so_ uptight. They could use a little distraction, even if it's someone plain like you."

"Plain?" You huff. "I'm not—"

"You are tragically plain compared to me, and even more so when compared to _them_ ," she reminds you. Her posture is straight now, and her hands are clasped together in her front, rather than hidden behind her back. You still don't trust them as she tents her fingers, curiously. "So how about a deal? I won't tell them how stupidly, predictably _in love with them_ you are, and you do me a little favor here and there, just to balance things out."

"So, basically, you're blackmailing me."

She gasps, and covers her mouth as if you've said something scandalous. "Blackmailing? You think the Sage of the Mischief would stoop to something as low and unnecessary as _blackmailing?_ I'm hurt, really I am."

"Oh." You're not sure if she's telling the truth or not, but just in case she is, you tell her: "Well, sorry, I meant that I—"

"But in this case I am so _totally_ blackmailing you. And you'd be an idiot to refuse."

"Wow, L. Faba. How _generous_ of you to give me the illusion of choice." You roll your eyes, but you have no intention of going against her. You doubt she'll ask you to do anything dangerous or impossible, but a small part of you is simply curious about what she has in mind. "Fine, what do you want from me?"

"Several things. First of all, Simeon refuses to go shopping with me, and because of that, I need someone to carry my bags."

"Your bags?" You imagine L. Faba in all her glory, hands filled with designer bags and plastic sleeves that serve as proof of her vanity. And a poor Simeon, whose back breaks underneath the weight of her greed. "Can't you just make them levitate?"

"Yes, but when I get distracted, I can't keep my eyes on them." Seriously? You've seen L. Faba multitasking like a _God_ before: one hand controlling a giant wooden spoon as she stirs a potion to fruition, the other hand equipped with a sleek, rare wand, casting spells left and right on the newest challenger. And her eyes were focused on her _phone_ instead of her opponent, the sounds of a mobile game victory ringing in tune with an amazed crowd. L. Faba, for all her oddity, is not a disorganized or unfocused person. She is anything but.

You know this is her excuse to use you as a lapdog, but with the threat of revealing your feelings about Morgyn hanging in the balance, you can't possibly jeopardize the peace that hangs between you—as thin and frail as a severed thread.

You roll your eyes, _again,_ and sigh. "Alright, I'll hold your bags."

She smiles, and you know the expression too well to be surprised by it anymore. "Glad we could come to an understanding. Now put that potion down and come with me—it's discount time at Casters Alley!"

* * *

You and L. Faba spend four hours at Casters Alley. There are clothes shops, despite the broken appearance of the buildings they're in, and you almost faint at the price tags that the Sage chooses for herself. Of course she's loaded, and of course she shows off every pricey purchase to whoever's in sight. Because of the blackmailing situation, that person happens to be you.

You are sitting in the dressing room lounge of an expensive boutique, sighing as L. Faba comes out in her third dress. This time, she wears a sexy black lace piece, held together by the barest strings and even then not really. You wonder if any of this is worth the pain of keeping your affections for Morgyn a secret, when she pierces the silence with a well-placed statement.

"But, like, don't you think the whole mentor-apprentice thing is kinda cliche? How many times do you think we've had to train spellcasters from the ground up, only to discover this was a big elaborate way of getting in our pants?"

"L. Faba!" you almost scream. Glancing around the room with frantic eyes, you can feel a mixture of indignation and embarrassment come through. "Maybe that's true for some people, but that's not true for me."

"Relax, relax. I know you're a normie, there's no need to get all stitchy with me."

"A normie? What does that—"

"A more interesting person would _obviously_ use this as an opportunity to take advantage of Morgyn inside and out."

You sit back into the lounge chair, worried. "What do you mean?"

"Start as his apprentice and work your way to something more. We've all seen it happen." She sighs and collapses in the chair next to you. The outfit is less sexy when she's sitting down, you realize. "I've had it happen to me exactly thirteen times. Only two of those times were unintentional."

"So, what? You just let the other eleven people get close to you on purpose, just so you could break their hearts?"

"Exactly."

"Is Morgyn—"

"Simeon and Morgyn are _way_ too uptight to notice those kinds of things. But as I've told you, I'm a diviner and I pretty much see all."

"How long have you been divining?"

"Well, it's actually a fairly recent practice of mine, but maybe...two hundred years ago? Maybe two and half."

Your stomach drops at the realization that _of course,_ L. Faba is an immortal. Someone like her could probably never bear to grow old, getting wrinkles and mental delays and other issues when you pass a certain age. Then again, even if L. Faba looked more like Minerva's age, she would probably still strut around in her heels, and make messes of everything and everyone around her. So it doesn't surprise you as much as it should.

That thought leads to another, and— "How old is Morgyn?"

Her eyes light up. "Oh? Suddenly worried about age, are we?"

"Well, kind of. I'm new to this, so I'm not much older than I seem." You fit in with Grace and Tomax because they're in your age range: young adults who have already graduated from the horror that is high school, and now forced to decide what to do with the rest of their lives. At least Glimmerbrook and the Magic Realm made the decision easier on you, you think. At least you have that. "And, I dunno, isn't it a little weird to date someone that's so much older than you?"

"Only if you make it weird," L. Faba insists. She sounds a bit touchy, but then you remember she has experience with your exact circumstances. "True, the age gap and the reality that someone is alive while your entire family hasn't even _lived_ yet could be kind of weird. In fact, if you think about it, I might have passed your great, great, great, great, great grandparents by at some point in my life and hadn't even noticed." She stands to her feet and gasps. "I could've passed by _you_ as a child, a teen, a growing babe and not even know it! How cool is that?"

"Sure, sure, it's cool, but, seriously, I'm worried. How old is Morgyn Ember?"

"Obviously I can't tell you that."

"What? Why not?"

"Because then it'd influence your decision to chase after him, and our arrangement would be at a loss." She looks serious as she says this, and you shrink at the thought of countless hours spent waiting for her to get dressed, and countless beads of sweat shed as you carry her small army of shopping bags. "Besides, you can just ask him yourself. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"Can you at least tell me his birthday?"

"It's in the summer."

You groan. "L. Faba, seriously? Not even his birthday? How cruel can you get?"

She laughs. "This time, I'm being serious. All I know is that his birthday is in the summer. He's never told anyone the exact date."

Suddenly, the laughter feels unwarranted, and your worries from before are ignited in full. "How come?"

"Again, I wouldn't know. I've asked him a million times and all he answers with is 'it's not important that you know.'" Whatever L. Faba lacks in compassion or tact, she certainly makes up for in wit and charm. She can imitate Morgyn to near perfection. "And I got annoyed at some point, so I just gave up on it."

"But it's during the summer? You're sure about that?"

"Yeah, but it's not like that sort of thing can help you."

The gears of your mind spin and spin, loosening something that wasn't there before. You smile softly, and nod. "Right," you lie. "Let's just forget it, then. So, about the next store..."

* * *

Summer is just around the corner. Spring is ending, so that means you have even less time to figure out Morgyn's birthday. And not having enough time to know his birthday means you won't know his age. Maybe you should've asked L. Faba about how long has Morgyn been a Sage, because that might have given you some hint, but you can't go back to her now.

All you can do is formulate a plan, and see it to fruition. You have some experience sewing, that much is sure, and you have an idea about what to do to celebrate your favorite Sage's birthday. But if Morgyn is the secretive type, the kind of person that doesn't like revealing too much, then you can't be too forceful with your methods.

You just have to be sincere. You just have to be yourself.

And hopefully, that will be enough.

* * *

It is the first day of summer. Glimmerbrook has intensely hot and dry summers, despite the amount of foliage that grows around the neighborhoods. Even after showering for nearly an hour in cold water, you can feel a new sheen of sweat begin to form at the base of your back as you step outside, and face the uncomfortable summer heat head on. At the very least, the Realm of Magic is far more welcoming, and is thirty degrees cooler than its real-world counterpart. It's cool enough that there is an audible _sigh_ heard from the people, the moment they step through the portal.

It is the first day of summer, but because the magical realm is not hot, you find Morgyn dressed in their usual outfit: blood-red coat, white turtleneck, black slacks, and gray boots. He does not lack for color, certainly, and his whole ensemble is always kept together by the magical fetters around his wrists and hands, as well as the intricate gold insignia at his neck. He sits in one of the chairs on the second story, one leg crossed over the other as he scans through a large book. There is a steaming mug of tea on the glass table before him, and his eyes are completely lost in the text.

You sit across from him in the opposite chair, silent for a few moments as you ponder your options. Then, you strike, with a voice louder and clearer than you've ever used before: "Happy birthday, Morgyn."

You don't expect him to acknowledge you, because it's the first day of summer, so really, it's unlikely for today of all days to be his birthday. Yet those simple three words hold some magical charm within them, because he stops reading his book—to the point where he leaves it aside, and stares at you without hesitation. "What?"

"Happy birthday," you simply repeat yourself. You're not sure if you're scared or embarrassed, but something is making you highly uncomfortable right now. It's not Morgyn, that's for sure.

"It's not my birthday," he points out. "So why would you—"

"L. Faba told me that your birthday is sometime in summer, but that you never let anyone know the exact date."

Their eyebrows furrow, and their expression goes from mildly interested to terribly distressed in a manner of seconds. "She said that?"

"Yes."

"Damn."

"Can I ask why?"

"Why what?"

"Why don't you let people celebrate your birthday?"

"One: because it's not worth celebrating."

 _Oh._ Oh, you never thought you'd hear them say that in a million years. Morgyn isn't terrible, but they're known for being a bit crass at times—overly ambitious when other people are content with being relaxed. Slightly arrogant and elitist when others are too humble. They're nothing compared to Darrel, for example, but some people complain that the Sage of the Untamed is too powerful, too caught up in their own ideals to make sense of the real world around them.

So how could Morgyn Ember, the embodiment of all those things and more, claim that their birthday isn't worth celebrating?

"I think a lot of people would disagree on you with that, and it's not just me," you counter. There is no anger or sadness in your voice, however. Merely surprise. "Any other reasons?"

"It's a hassle. As a Sage, I am duty-bound for as long as I am able. If I have to celebrate my birthday every year for the rest of my life, I'll go crazy."

"Are you sure? If people lived as long as we do, as long as we _might,_ they'd disagree, too."

"I'm a firm believer that disagreement isn't necessarily a bad thing," he reminds, in that scholarly tone that fits the role of _mentor_ all too well. "People can think what they want. I'm entitled to do the same."

"Jeez, that's a bit much," you mutter under your breath. "Y'know what?"

"What?"

"I don't care if you don't like your birthday, or whatever. I'm going to celebrate it."

"You don't know when my birthday _is,"_ they point out, because they're oh-so-good at pointing out your mistakes, as you well know. "And even if you did, I wouldn't allow you to celebrate it with something stupid and cliche, like a surprise party."

"It doesn't have to be a party. I just want to know the proper day to celebrate the day you came into this world, that's all."

"I'm not telling you when it is."

"You don't _have_ to tell me when your birthday is," you groan. "Just accept the fact that every day, until it's your birthday, I'm going to wish you a happy birthday."

"Every day?"

"As long as it's summer. That much is true, right?" At their disappointed frown, you smile wider. "You can deny me all you want, but eventually I'm going to say it on the right day, and when that happens I'll give you a gift and you have to accept it like the good Samaritan you are."

"Like the good Samaritan you _think_ I am." They smile a little bit—the happiest they've looked the entire conversation. "Fine. Do what you want. But you're going to look really embarrassing for the next three months."

"And you're going to look like an unappreciative jerk by denying me until I get to the right day," you rebut. "I look forward to it."

Morgyn stands up, and the book levitates after them in an almost hurried movement. They take back the tea mug, too, and head towards the stairs where a much more tolerable destination awaits. But they don't look angry by any means, and instead, they shoot you a mischievous look over their shoulder, shouting out:

"That makes one of us!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the long update! as you know, life has been hard for all of us. if you're here by some chance, reading my stuff, then that's more than words can ever say. 
> 
> next time: curses 101.


	6. living like we're supposed to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> curses 101.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: this chapter contains swearing and some slightly disturbing imagery, with some curse-related hijinks.

"Grace, with all due respect, what the fuck happened to you?"

"Shut it, Tomax."

You stifle a giggle. Grace looks like her usual self, sure, but her skin is sour green and her nose is ten centimetres longer than it should be. Not to mention that her flawless complexion is covered in warts and scars too ugly to name. From what you remember, there is a Curse of Repulsiveness that exists, which makes failed spellcasters look absolutely disgusting to everyone around them. The other people in the room wouldn't go near Grace with a ten-foot-pole, but as her best friends, you and Tomax bravely stand beside her.

Though, if she's getting red with anger from Tomax's insensitive comments, you can hardly tell through the green-apple-tone her skin has taken on. You scrunch up your nose and ask, "Seriously, what happened? You've...looked better."

"Failed potion, but what else is new?" She sighs and buries her temporarily-ugly face into her arms. "Morgyn wasn't kidding about curses."

"All he told us was that they exist, and that we should be careful. He never said they'd make us into freak shows." Tomax huffs as he leafs through the pages of his spellbook. He's better at alchemy than Grace is, but you remembered how he had the Curse of Awkward Embraces a few weeks back, and your face goes red at how tightly he squeezed you—and how he couldn't let go of you even if he wanted to.

Can Morgyn still get curses at his level? More specifically, can you curse Morgyn with the Curse of Awkward Embraces so that he'd hug you like that?! It burns you to even _think_ of the possibility, but your fantasies are crushed by one long, drawn-out groan.

Courtesy of a cursed Grace. "Whatever. Just don't look at me. We've still got three more recipes to nail down before midnight."

" _You've_ got three recipes to nail down, you mean."

"You guys can't just leave me here. People keep whispering, and if you two stay by me, at least they'll have something else to look at."

"You say that as if you're not drawing the attention of everyone in the room, anyway—like moths to light." You snicker at your own comparison, but flip open your spell book, anyway. Solidarity hidden behind sarcasm, at its finest. "So, which recipe are we trying out next?"

* * *

There is something beautiful about persistence. After the first day of summer, you keep true to your promise, and wish Morgyn Ember a happy birthday whenever you see them in the magic realm. As they predicted, the sight of you shouting happy birthday at someone when it _isn't_ their birthday is quite embarrassing, indeed. You can't remember the last time you had this many eyes on you—not since that one embarrassing thing you did in Junior Year of high school, or that time you said "You too," to a barista after they said "Enjoy your drinks."

But every time you scream "Happy birthday, Morgyn!" at the top of your lungs, you feel as if the whole world is beneath you. There are no spell casters, cauldrons, or bookshelves in the room. There is only you and the Sage of the Untamed, sharing brief moments of eye contact before one of you inevitably breaks away. Most of the time, it's Morgyn to break away first, because they're a busy Sage who can't afford to waste a _second_ with frivolity. Least of the time, it's you to break off first, because you're a novice in the magical arts and a completely insufferable asshole. At least, that's what you're _trying_ to come off as.

And your efforts are rewarded like so:

"Happy birthday, Morgyn," you call out from across the room.

"It's not my birthday," he announces to everyone, but most of all you.

"Happy birthday, Morgyn," you whisper as you pass by him on the stairs.

"Still not my birthday," he reminds you as he leaves.

"Happy birthday, Morgyn," you mutter, half-asleep, trying to keep your eyes open as the cauldron stirs itself sleepily.

"Not my birthday," he murmurs, equally tired, but defiantly staying awake to prove a point. Also, you're holding a frog tank, and you're ready to take out the dirt frog that's needed for the Potion of Nausea, just as the recipe calls for it, but wait, wait—that's not the right frog. Morgyn blinks once, twice, then rubs the sleep from his eyes. Oh, Glimmerstone, that's a _spotted_ dirt frog, commonly mistaken for its cousin, the normal dirt frog, except if you put it in the cauldron, it's wrong, because they are two different frogs and even though you don't know this, this is the fifteenth failed spell that Morgyn has had to oversee all day, so he'd better say something before you mess it up real big time— "Wait, that's—"

Too late. "Huh?" you ask in a quiet voice, the sound of an incorrect frog plopping into the cauldron after you. "What's wrong?"

The fumes should be orange, sunset-bright, and cloying. Instead, the smoke that lifts from the cauldron is a deep black, with streaks of midnight blue mixed in. Morgyn reaches out for you, face twisted into an awake, frightened knot, but he's also too late, because the smoke envelops you, and you cough out a lung or two. You don't really know.

You hit the floor before you can check your chest for missing organs. Potion failures are common, but their effects vary from time to time. For you, it's a little bit like having vertigo, and the surroundings bleed into your vision, before melting into waves of color and motion. You feel the soft earth of the second-story garden below you, and you hear an owl hooting into the night air above you. Morgyn's favorite hangout has become _your_ favorite hangout, of course, so leave it to fate that you're in his favorite place when you keel over, coughing and mumbling as the failed potion overtakes you.

Your bones break but set again; your body bleeds but dries again. In the few seconds it takes you to register what exactly it is you have done, Morgyn is at your side, trying to get a rise out of you. "Hey, wake up!" he calls desperately. You remember two months ago that Emilia and Darrel were having some lovers' quarrel that resulted in a messed-up potion they worked on together, and as a result, they both fainted on the ground. Their hands reached out to each other as they stirred, and it was Romeo and Juliet all over the Headquarters' floor.

You imagine yourself bent into a crescent moon, hands lifeless before they twitch back to life, and you groan as you try to sit up straight. "That can't be good," you say to Morgyn. "What happened?"

"You used the wrong frog," he mutters. It's night time, so maybe that's why he's being quiet, but there's a hint of something else in his voice. You think it's _shame._ "The recipe calls for a dirt frog, not a _spotted_ dirt frog."

"Honest mistake," you insist. "I think?" You blink, and your surroundings are no longer muddy. The plants and the flowers of the garden stand out against the moonlight, and Morgyn's lean frame is like a shadow at your side, until you gaze up into his eyes where you see the sun and the summer, instead.

Where you see _light._

Remembering yourself, you quickly look away from him, and struggle to stand up. "Okay, curse check: Do I smell bad?"

"Nope." Morgyn jumps to his feet, dusting himself off as he eyes you warily. "You don't look like a wretched beast, either, so Curse of Repulsiveness is off the table."

You remember what Grace looked like last month, when she made herself out to be the wartiest, greenest, meanest face alive by accident. Thank goodness Morgyn doesn't have to see _you_ like that. "Do you feel like punching me? Or challenging me to a duel?"

Morgyn stares at you very, very, _very_ seriously, and you try your hardest not to sweat under his scrutiny. "Hmm...not quite sure about that one."

" _Morgyn!_ I'm _cursed,_ this is serious!"

"And I'm serious, too. I mean, I'm your mentor, so part of me wants to duel you, anyway. But I don't feel like starting a fist fight or grounding your face in, so...I'd say you're okay, concerning the Curse of Unwarranted Hostility and the Hex of the Duelist."

"There's not many curses left after that," you reason. "Why can't I tell right away like you can?"

"I've been cursed more times than you know," he reassures. "It takes some practice, and until you learn how to brew a Potion of Curse Cleansing—or until you learn the anti-curse spell—you'll have plenty of chances to figure things out."

"Great." You dust off your jeans again, even though they're not the least bit dirty. "Well, I'll figure it out sooner or later. I'll just clean this mess up and call it a night."

"Alright. Once you figure it out, tell me as soon as possible. I'll give you some tips on how to deal with...whatever it is." Morgyn chuckles, and that in itself is enough to get you to laugh, too. Mistakes happen all the time. It's okay to mess up. "Do you need help with cleaning?"

You glance at the smoking cauldron, which is now harmless and serves as nothing more than a beacon to all your failures. You begin to wave your wand, remembering the basic incantations for cleaning out a cauldron, and shake your head. "It's okay, I've got this."

He nods. "If you're sure." He is gathering his own things, and you're ready to let him go, until you check your phone and realize it's far past midnight.

A new day has started. With a smirk, you call out to him: "Happy birthday, by the way."

He pauses, and for a second, just a _second,_ you think that you've caught him in the act of celebrating birth. Instead, he shakes his head, and returns your bright expression with a smile of his own. "It's _still_ not my birthday, y'know."

"Oh."

"But who knows." He shrugs. "You might get it right one of these days."

You snort. "One of these days?"

"Yeah, but not before then, and certainly not after."

"Go get some sleep, Ember."

"That's my line." He turns his back on you now, and you can see his fleeting image go down the stairs. His voice, however, pierces the night sky, and is the music that keeps your clumsy dance in time. "Good night."

You don't answer in time for him to hear it, but you're sure that somewhere, somehow, he can understand your unsaid meaning. He can guess at your feelings, as you close your eyes and sigh—thinking back to those moments where he rushed to your side. Months ago, Morgyn warned you he wouldn't be a good mentor, and yet, he's been anything but. Every day, he is there for you, guiding you, watching you, _caring_ for you.

You just hope that one day, you can make him _love_ you, too.

"Good night, Morgyn."

* * *

When you go back home to sleep that night, two things occur to you.

One: you are now cursed with the Curse of the Night Wraith. You remember L. Faba talking about how objectively, this is the scariest curse to get, because a ghost like lightning will screech at you and haunt you, preventing you from sleeping even a wink. Worse than that, it chases you around the house, and summons lightning to strike you down when it feels like it. When its eyes lock onto you, you can't help but freeze in fear at the horror that is its eyes—lightning streams that reflect ever-sparking chaos, flashes of hopelessness that look like neon tears. Then it opens its gaping mouth and wails, and you have no choice but to run.

The Night Wraith greets you the moment you enter your home, and it chases you until you duck out into the woods by your house, hoping to the Magical Realm and whatever else is out there that it doesn't see you all the way out there.

While hiding in the underbrush, the second realization hits you just as hard.

Before, you thought Morgyn's voice was laced with _shame,_ and you assumed he was disappointed at yet another magical failure on your end. After analyzing the night, remembering his words, envisioning his eyes, and memorizing his perfect movements, you understand that it wasn't shame which coated his voice.

It was _concern._ And knowing that Morgyn was really, really, _really_ concerned with you (genuine, actual concern, the closest thing to love there is, maybe) is more comforting than you know.

The Night Wraith will chase you all night and leave you feeling frozen.

But Morgyn's entire existence will warm you up again.

You're certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for your continued support. this chapter and the next one are actually my favorites thus far, so hopefully you'll see (slightly) faster updates. i love y'all. 
> 
> next time: curses 102.


	7. flowers in my hair, i belong by the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> curses 102.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: this chapter contains descriptions of drowning and the after effects of some curses.

You play the hero.

Not in a, drama-club, "you've been given the lead role" kind of a hero, but a self-sacrificing, "holding all the pain inside" type of hero. See, the Curse of the Night Wraith is a lot more troublesome than you'd ever thought it to be. And sure, you've had sleepless nights, those that were exacerbated by the amount of caffeine you drank throughout the day, or worsened by watching true crime documentaries when the world is at its darkest. It's natural to fall out of the sleeping cycle every now and then. It's _normal,_ even. Those nights you spend entirely awake, only to crash for twelve hours straight the next day, are things you are completely familiar with.

When it comes to the Night Wraith, however, there _is_ no crashing. Sleep is impossible in this state, and as the days go on, you wonder if you've lost the capability for it entirely. Your eyes feel strained and tired, and closing them—even for a _moment_ —makes no difference. Your limbs are heavy and leaden, they feel cold and numb in comparison to the warmth they're supposed to generate. In an attempt to be wary and energetic, you are dazed and exhausted, instead.

Your projects, your hobbies, your passions, your _magic..._ all of it suffers at the hands of a specter that cries lightning and screams thunder. There is no peace of mind in your home, and so after a few sleepless nights of running around your house, dodging a volatile curse's manifestation of horror and headaches, you retreat to the only other safe place you know.

The Magic Realm, of course. You have been going there almost daily as per your usual routine, and around Morgyn you act as normal as you possibly can. Perhaps it's your pride, or maybe your concern for him, but you don't tell him that you're cursed with the Night Wraith. The Sage is so busy these days, he doesn't have time for something so trivial. Also, since you appear to be fine, he must've forgotten that you were cursed in the first place, or have cured it yourself since you last saw him. It doesn't matter either way, because you really ought to have figured out the Potion of Curse Cleansing by now. You're pretty adept at magic these days, so it only makes sense that you craft an antidote to prove it.

The potion calls for an apple, a citrine, a mandrake, and an angelfish. You have everything except for the angelfish (your mistake with the frogs has made you wary around the live creatures needed for potions, in all honesty) ready to go. You know that Casters Alley features a market for potion ingredients, but the inventory changes everyday. The one time you need the dastardly fish, they don't have it for sale, so the only way you can get your hands on one is to catch it yourself.

So you stand there in front of the large river that passes through the Magical Realm, crystal blue waters sparkling as the stream eventually careens off into a waterfall, the ends of it infinite and impossible to make out with the naked eye. Weather and nature seem like an illusion in this place, and you've grown accustomed to the visual oddities as you have everything else. You don't think about the river's end so much as you think about the fish swimming through it, as normal yet magical as the rest of the ingredients needed to produce alchemist magic. You hold the rod patiently over the stream, waiting for a bite.

What you don't expect to see is the Night Wraith, reflected in the water's image as a looming shadow behind you. You drop the fishing rod and screech, nerves rattled and fried from the constant waking state you've had, anxiety as lightning coursing through your veins. The river's water douses you, but you don't care. Your body seems to move on its own—a natural reaction to the wraith that's been chasing you down for the last week or so. The grass feels like clouds parting beneath you, and the beautiful colors of the realm that scintillate and _shine_ are melding in your vision, tears blurred at the edge of your eyes as you struggle to run, run, _run_ away, body as weightless as feathers falling from a bird's plume. Mind empty and blank, an expanse of fear and desperation takes over what once was yours.

You feel yourself slip into the river a moment too late. The world screeches to a deafening halt as the water roars over your ears and floods your eyes. You can see the ethereal sky past the aquatic layer above you, and you feel the rocks and the reeds of the river scrape by your skin as they bristle past. You reach out your hand, trying to remember how to swim (if you can even _swim_ in the first place), but your fingers find no purchase to hold onto. Everything is silent and swift but loud all at once. You can barely hear your frantic thoughts over the pounding in your chest, and the current of the river that thrums like a pulse.

You involuntarily gasp, letting in a rush of water into your mouth and down to your lungs, finalizing your fate. Luckily, you feel something plunge into the water and grab hold of you.

The sky, the sky, _the sky._ It's odd, but the first thing that registers in your mind is the sky, as you break through the surface of the water, gasping for air. You don't focus on the person who saved you, or the fresh air that now surrounds you. Your eyes are skyward, and the stars that faintly twinkle behind the strange layer of clouds are comforting to you. They gleam and shine one minute, then are completely dark and missing the next. It is a picture, you think. The sky in this realm is a picture that is constantly being repainted, redone for the onlookers to appreciate. What kind of magic controls the sky, you can never hope to know.

You just stare at it, calming yourself down, coughing up the remnants of the river that you took with you. After staring the sky, you realize the stale air is cold against your wet skin. You shiver and whimper, and instinctively curl up into a ball to preserve heat. You shut your eyes closed when a familiar voice washes over you.

"Are you okay?"

It sounds like heaven, but the realization of exactly _who_ it is burns like hell. You really can't do anything right in front of them, can't you? "I-I'm fine," you mutter. The words don't feel like they're coming from _your_ mouth, specifically, but you register the distant sound, anyway. "Thank you, Morgyn. Y-You _saved_ me."

"Saved you?" They scoff, and you feel something twist in your stomach. "What the hell _happened_ to you? You were just fine, and then you started screaming. I heard you all the way from HQ."

 _There's no use denying it,_ you think. _I can't hide anything from you, can I?_

 _Or maybe it's like I should have never hid it to begin with._ "Night Wraith," you whisper. "I'm cursed by the Night Wraith."

Morgyn doesn't speak after that. There seems to be a silent understanding between you two, as a couple of spellcasters and nothing more. All curses are awful things to deal with, but the Night Wraith is one of the most horrid of them all. It's nothing short of a nightmare, with a ghoul stalking your every movements, haunting your mind and draining your body of life with every second. To resist it is one thing, but every spellcaster worth their wand would know that the best solution is to get rid of it right away, as there are few magical measures to counteract its effects.

To know this, but to still struggle with it simply because you didn't want to admit your faults to them, is hurtful, to say the least. Your eyes are still closed (you're not sleeping, because you _can't_ sleep, but you also don't want to face Morgyn head-on), and your body is still curled up and weakened, but none of it settles the unrest in your heart. You can hear the disappointment in Morgyn's voice as clear as the river running behind you.

"So you were just going to live with it and never tell me?"

"Morgyn—"

"Do you have any idea how worried I was? I didn't forget, y'know. I just waited to see if you'd tell me, if you'd figured it out. Then, the next thing I know, I hear you screaming and I see you nearly drowning to death in the river."

"I'm sorry."

They make an offended noise. "You almost _died_ and you're apologizing to me? Do you know how stupid that is?"

"You're the one that's scolding me," you point out defiantly. Eyes open, you struggle to sit upright. "So I just felt the need to apologize. Sorry."

Now that you're closer to them, you notice some things you haven't noticed before. Morgyn's face, for example, and how twisted in concern and agony it is. Morgyn's clothes, which are soaking wet, because they had to nearly jump into the river to save your sorry ass. Morgyn's hands, which are shaking so slightly that you barely notice them, but you realize that's because they're doing their best to hold it all in, to prevent unleashing their righteous anger out on you.

Morgyn's _eyes,_ also, are so green and unlike your own, discerning in every way possible. Then they clap a hand on your shoulder, gently and carefully. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be angry at you. It's not your fault for falling in."

"But—"

"—it _is_ your fault for not telling anyone about your curse," they insist. "Let's get that straight, at least."

You exhale deeply, your body shivering with cold and relief at the same time. Your chest feels icy as you intake air, but you know that soon, you'll be brought inside to a warm room and left to rest. You trust Morgyn with something as important as your life. In fact, your trust has been _proven_ mere moments ago, as Morgyn saved you without any hesitation. You nod at the realization. "Yes, you're right."

"Good. So, let's go back inside and dry you off, okay?"

"Okay."

"And after this," they murmur, helping you stand to your feet with firm hands, "I am curing your Curse, and you are going to go home and _sleep._ "

Part of you wants to defy it. Even though you need to sleep, and you _should_ sleep, it's moments like these that make you want to stay awake even longer. But Morgyn's harsh stare reminds you of their power and their authority over you, and how you'd be idiotic to refuse. You give in. "Okay, I will. But just for a little bit. I don't want to sleep for too long and forget to wish you a happy birthday."

At this point, the two of you are halfway back to Headquarters, but Morgyn stares at you incredulously. "After all that _,_ you're _still_ thinking about my birthday? I'll never understand you."

"It's the least I can do for my favorite Sage."

Morgyn gives you an odd look. If you weren't so tired or nearly drowned, you'd venture to guess that they look _surprised._ "Favorite?"

 _Uh-oh._ You're also lucky that you're soaking wet, because small beads of sweat begin to collect at your neck and forehead. "Um, I mean— _one_ of my favorites. I can't play favorites around L. Faba, though—no one can, really."

Whether or not he buys your explanation, it's impossible to tell, but part of you is sure that he sees through your incredibly weak ruse. And before you know it, you're inside Morgyn's private study, a place you've only been to once in your entire life, during the initiation into becoming a spellcaster all those months ago. The room is always changing, and the books constantly float from one shelf to another—from one _desk_ to the other. Unlike the rest of the building, Morgyn's study features dark wood furniture and appliances. Compared to the rest of the dazzling white marble and silver-edged mirrors, Morgyn's domain looks cozier, warmer, and _darker._ You get the sense of shadows and unease in here, which is a strange and random thought that crosses your mind, making you wonder why you even thought it in the first place.

Must be the near-death experience. That usually does things to a person.

You sit down on one of the sofas in the room. Morgyn's study is big enough to be a small library on its own, with large bookshelves and multiple places to sit. There are no chairs across Morgyn's desk itself, however, probably so the room doesn't feel more like an office than it already is. You take it all in, and sigh heavily when Morgyn comes back from one of the cabinets, and wraps a heavy, dry blanket over your shoulders. You bunch up the ends of the blanket even closer to yourself, enveloping your body in its warmth.

He returns his attention to one of the many shelves in the room. There is a cabinet on the far wall filled with various artifacts and vials, and you surmise that he keeps an inventory of potions and other things of the like for emergencies. Just in case. And sure enough, Morgyn takes a vial from its place on the shelf, inspecting it before he nods to himself. He walks back to you, uncorks the lid, and offers the elixir within.

"One dose of Curse Cleansing," he says. "Drink it all."

"I dunno." You take the vial, and look up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. "Is it diet? I only drink diet potions, y'know."

He dares to smile. "Sorry, but I can't tell the difference."

"Looks like I'll just have to let you know."

"Looks like it."

You bring the vial to your lips, and you drink.

Immediately, warmth floods you, and the fatigue of a whole week's worth of sleepless nights crashes down on you, sinking your shoulders and forming as dark circles under your eyes. The image of the Night Wraith isn't erased, exactly, but it's _cleansed_ from your mind as you no longer worry about spectral demons or lightning strikes. Instead, you worry about staying awake, and how comfortable it is inside this one room, simply because Morgyn also happens to be in it.

Then, to shatter your illusion in full, Morgyn says: "Time to go home."

"Right," you say, a bit dizzy from how sleepy and trashed you are. "Sorry about all this, Morgyn."

"Y'know, I like hearing _Thank you_ instead of _I'm sorry._ Give it a try."

"...Thank you, Morgyn."

"That's better." He takes out his wand and his glimmerstone, then glances at you briefly. "Do you need me to take you home?"

You don't even think twice about it. Your eyelashes flutter hazily as you ask, "Please?"

"Fine. But once you're better, you owe me a duel. And maybe a lunch or dinner—something to make this feel better."

"Magic makes things feel better, too."

"True, but magic can't beat genuine experiences."

"Genuine experiences?"

"Like, real sleep, real food." His voice sounds like he's smiling. Your eyes are too heavy for you to look and make sure. "Maybe that's something I should've told you from the beginning—it's something most spellcasters forget to do, as time goes on."

You laugh, then say: "Remember when you told me you'd be an awful mentor?"

Morgyn doesn't answer right away. "Yes, and what about it?"

At the same time, you answer, "You're so, so wrong. You're, like, the best mentor ever. You've done so much for me, you're always doing stuff for me, and all I can do in return is—"

You don't say anything else. You hear the sound of magic being cast (a wand swishing in the air, a minor incantation being murmured, a stone beaming to life), and the next thing you know, you're sitting on a bed. More specifically, it's _your_ bed, in your home. You don't hear Morgyn's voice or sense his presence at all, and yet you feel a kind force guiding you: laying you down softly, pulling the covers over your body, setting your things to the side. Then you feel a small pinprick of the same force applied to your forehead. You're not sure what the sensation is, but you like it. You feel yourself smiling before you finally give into slumber, give into rest.

All the colors are gone and everything is black.

It's quiet.

* * *

In the middle of your dream, a few things occur to you.

First, the small pinprick from before wasn't just a random touch, but a _kiss._ You're almost sure of it. Whatever spectral power Morgyn used to summon you back home, he also used it to kiss you. Either that, or you're so sleep-deprived that your fantasies feel real, too.

Second, you never got to say happy birthday to Morgyn on the day you almost drowned. It's the first time you messed up your little routine, so you wonder if today was supposed to be his birthday, and you actually managed to miss it. Something tells you it's not the case, though.

Third, when you wake up, only eight hours from when you first fell asleep, you realize you're so tired you can't possibly go outside. You need a few days to recover from whatever awful after effects the Curse of the Night Wraith laid upon you. So instead of wishing Morgyn a happy birthday in person, you text it to him, making sure you don't miss a beat. For the most part, he replies candidly ( _It's sad how you still haven't gotten it right,_ he texts, proper grammar and syntax and all), so you find comfort in the fact that you haven't missed it yet.

Then, the strangest thing happens: you fall asleep. Of course, you've been trying to go back to your normal sleep schedule since the incident, but at some point, your body succumbs to the deep-set exhaustion that has filled you from the start. You nearly drop your phone on your face while you're lying down in bed, and you blink away sleep from your eyes, with the horrid realization that a stream of _lightning_ crosses your vision. Some curses have lingering effects, you know. Sometimes, a Night Wraith can still haunt your dreams, or make you exhausted, long after it's been banished from existence.

In this case, it gives you back all the sleep you've ever lost.

You're unconscious for three days straight.

When you finally wake up, you notice you have texts from Morgyn, asking if you're still okay.

 _Happy birthday,_ you text sloppily, as soon as you regain feeling in your fingers. It's a little bit past midnight, so you've missed a few days worth of birthday celebrations. The calendar tells you that it's the 14th of August, peak summer season. You remember falling asleep on the night of the 10th, which means you've missed every day in between. It couldn't possibly be the case that you missed Morgyn's birthday, right? All those days of teasing and tormenting him, all those moments where he denied you and insisted his birthday wasn't important...it couldn't have been for _nothing,_ right?

He texts back.

Your heart sinks.

You can tell when it's not his birthday, because he says as much. You hope, wish, and _pray_ that you haven't betrayed your own promise to the Sage. You wait for a text, anticipating the usual "It's not my birthday" as a response. Instead, Morgyn replies, and two words stare you blankly in the face, nearly bringing tears to your eyes.

_Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the next update! i spent a lot of time reworking this, which isn't how i usually write these chapters (mostly i get in a frenzy and write the whole thing in one sitting. i spend a couple of sessions proofreading but that's it), so hopefully my unrest didn't show throughout. thanks for being patient and continuing to enjoy my writing! i appreciate y'all more than you can know. 
> 
> next time: a little bit of sun.


	8. where we used to be, sittin' by the orange trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of sun.

You do not get to see Morgyn Ember until two days after his birthday has passed. This is because you spend all that time making him a present.

An embroidered sunflower brooch, meant to be worn on the lapel of his trademark coat.

It is a bold gift, assuming he'd wear it on any occasion, much less his (post) birthday celebration. And your sewing and embroidery skills are minimal, at best, but you put all of your crafts knowledge into producing a single artificial flower for your favorite Sage to enjoy.

You sincerely hope he enjoys it.

* * *

"Happy belated birthday, Morgyn," you say to him.

It is just the two of you standing in the second-story garden of HQ, a dark sky hanging over the two of you for eternity. The air is thick with the scent of honeysuckles and apples, enough to make your head spin. But you stay grounded, arms outstretched, a tiny gift bag extended in Morgyn's direction.

He wordlessly receives the gift from you, a look of confusion shrouding his face.

You smile.

He says, "You really didn't have to."

You reply, "But I did."

"So you did."

"Open it? For me?"

He sighs quietly. "Actually, the gift is for _me."_

" _Morgyn."_

"I'll open it."

And you watch with anticipation as he digs his hand through the bag, moving past the layers of tissue paper you inserted along with it. You should've asked for his favorite colors, because you stuck with a classic red-and-white-and-black color scheme. It feels overly formal, considering what the gift inside is.

He pulls out a small black box, and opens it at once.

The face of an embroidered sunflower shines up at the both of you, a dark mouth surrounded by golden petals splayed like fingers. The texture is mostly soft, but there is a metal pin on the backside of the accessory—something to help attach this flower to a piece of clothing.

Based on the stitchery and design alone, it's obvious that this gift is homemade. More than that, it's obvious that whoever made it tried their best to obscure the casual taste, and make the flower into something grander than it is with finer gold touches, or a delicate spiral here and there.

It's obvious that this gift is handmade, and that it came from you.

You can't make out the expression on his face, since he seems to purposely hide it from you, but Morgyn handles your gift with great care. "Oh," he mutters. "You shouldn't have."

"Do you like it?" You dare to ask. "I'm not the best at it, I could've done better, but I thought—"

"It's _perfect,"_ he insists. "Thank you." Morgyn doesn't wear it right away, but instead opts for placing it back into its box. He puts the box back in the gift bag, and holds it close to his side. "So I guess this is why you were gone the past few days?"

"Yeah," you admit sheepishly. If you were a good friend, you'd remember to make it a few weeks beforehand, but a few curses threw your entire schedule off. At least you were able to finish it roughly on time, even though it's still a late present. "So, I'm a little bit behind on everything. Nothing that a few sleepless nights couldn't fix."

"Trust me when I say that nothing should be prioritized over your own health," Morgyn says. ("Including _me_ ," he wants to say but doesn't. You understand his meaning, anyway.)

"I've learned my lesson," you insist. "I'm not totally useless, y'know."

"Never said you were," he defends. "No, I just don't want a repeat of last time."

Your burn bright red at his words. It seems the Night Wraith incident won't be forgotten anytime soon. "Me either! I swear, though, I'm good this time. For real."

"Really?"

"Really."

"If you say so," Morgyn laughs. "I appreciate your gift, truly. I just don't get it."

You hesitate before asking, "Get what?"

"I don't understand why you're so kind towards me. I'm just your mentor—if you wanted to, we'd never speak to each other again."

"Why would I want _that?_ " you answer, a bit too truthfully. "Morgyn I—" _love you_ — " _like_ being around you. As in, I enjoy your company?" You blink up at him owlishly. "Do you find that so hard to believe?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he laughs, low and quiet—sending chills up your spine. "Before, if you asked me that, I might have said yes."

Your breath hitches. "And now?"

"Now?" He is _so_ close to you. Close enough enough to make you wonder if the lack of distance has always been there, hidden behind your own hesitation, or if this is a new development. Did he always stand so close to you, so comfortable and calm that it wasn't such a big deal until you noticed it? Had he always stood that tall, or were the boots giving him extra height? Can he feel the warmth of your skin from where he is, mere moments away from brushing near you? He almost hums as he says, "Well, now I have no doubts."

You gulp, the tension never leaving your mouth, or your throat. You resist the urge to stare at his lips, even if they are just one careless shove away from meeting yours. "What do you mean?"

He blinks once, twice, his lashes fluttering so beautifully, it's as if his face has captured the moon's glow above you. (Is there a moon in the sky right now? You don't want to look away from him to check. You don't dare tear your eyes away from his.) "I mean, for the first time, it feels like—that maybe, I've met someone who doesn't care about who I am."

"I care about who you are—"

"That's a _compliment,_ you dunce."

Oh. You feel more embarrassed than usual, but he has that effect on you. That mind-numbing, tongue-tying, heart-racing effect on you. Even when he's not really doing _anything_ but standing there, appearing as the most beautiful person you've ever met in your life. "Oh. Sorry, I'm—"

"Tired?" He offers you a way out, the gentleman that he is. "It's late."

You don't need to check your phone to know that he's right. And you haven't had a Potion of Plentiful Needs in a good minute, but then you remember what he said to you about how spellcasters need _real_ things, like food and experiences. Real sleep, not the kind bottled in a potion, is part of that crucial formula, too. "It is," you mutter. "Maybe we should call it a night."

"We should."

"Ah, well, goodnight Morgyn. And happy belated birthday."

He pulls away, and you almost gasp out for him to _stay,_ instead, before remembering yourself and remembering your place. You watch him disengage, ready to return home, furthering the distance between the two of you—then going back on himself, swiveling around and catching you off guard in a way you'd never have guessed.

Morgyn Ember, Sage of the Untamed, Master of Magic, Certified Leo Sun Sign, turns on his heels as he walks away, and sweeps you up in his arms.

_Hugging you._

You can't remember how to breathe until he does it for you, his voice low and quiet near your ears. Comforting.

_"Thank you. I mean it."_

You stay like that for a good while, until you realize what you're meant to do in a situation like this, and draw your arms around his frame, squeezing tightly.

 _You're welcome_ goes unsaid, but he manages to catch every syllable in the lull of your body, heartbeat thrumming louder and louder until it becomes unbearable.

And then, silence.

The night is quiet.

* * *

The next time you see Morgyn, you notice that everything is the same. His laugh, his smile, his mannerisms—it's as if the night previous hadn't even happened, and there was no moment of resignation, tender affection, or _consideration_ shared between the two of you, in a space far too open yet enclosed for your liking. You feel your heart ache painfully, but decide there's nothing for it. Even his appearance is the same, from the tousled blond hair, to the sparkling green eyes, all the way down to the dark boots—they never lack for consistence, that much is sure.

The only thing different is the jacket, and the embroidered sunflower attached to his left lapel.

Right over his beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! happy spooky season! i hope you're all safe and enjoying yourselves. this chapter was much shorter in comparison to the last, but a good conclusion to the mini-arc i wanted. i planned this scene from the very beginning and though i've struggled with writing over these past few months, i feel happy with what i was able to create. i hope you guys feel the same way. thank you all for being so patient with me, and know that i appreciate every kudos, comment, bookmark, etc. that i receive from you all! in the words of morgyn, thank you. i mean it.
> 
> next time: how to ask someone out (for dummies)!


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